


When the Northern Sky is Clear

by Kilieit (p_3a)



Series: NaNoWriMo 2016 [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Goodbyes, Grief/Mourning, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Past Character Death, Past Mind Control, Reconciliation, adoptive parent alberic, patch 3.3: revenge of the horde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-07-27 13:16:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7619554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p_3a/pseuds/Kilieit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Estinien ties up some loose ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bale

Alberic was training new recruits. He was always doing that. Even when Estinien was a little boy, his eyes burned with horrors and his body weak with grief, Alberic would still leave to… well, he had to confess he didn't truly know what Alberic had been doing during those times. Now, he suspected he had been pleading his case to the Holy See as to how he was not a heretic for allowing the terrible Nidhogg to escape, and to how the last child of Ferndale should be cared for. But Estinien preferred to think he had been training new recruits.

He watched them now; a courtyard full of fresh faces and clattering spears. Usually he would have done so from the rooftop, but he'd lost his taste for that since it all. The cool stone of the open walkway's barrier chilled his arms through his shirt as he observed Alberic leading the young dragoons through their drills. They'd changed since Estinien did them.

But of course they had - the war was over, wasn't it? Nidhogg was destroyed. The Knights Dragoon served a different purpose now - primarily scouting and reconnaissance, though still they were needed to repel the sad remnants of Nidhogg's Horde. Although much of the movements were the same, the order was different, and there was more talking in between. Estinien was too far away to hear what about.

He turned and paced back down the walkway, disappearing down the stairs.

It was another bell and a half before the session was ended, and the flood of chatty recruits exiting the courtyard notified Estinien that his quarry was about to be free. He slipped, unnoticed, through the entranceway - one advantage of his armour being the singular recognisable trait in his appearance - and waited for Alberic to turn around from where he was stashing the training arms into a locker.

Alberic wasn't expecting him. The last time they'd seen one another face-to-face, it had been at the Steel Vigil. Estinien had tried to murder him. And now Estinien had been responsible for the deaths of dozens more; maybe hundreds. Many of them dragoons. Many of them Alberic's trainees.

Estinien stood his ground, ignoring the sweat dampening his fingertips where they dug into his palms.

Alberic finally turned. He immediately stopped in his tracks. There was a long moment where they simply exchanged eye contact. Estinien knew he must look different. He wasn't wearing his armour - for the first time since he'd earned it. His hair was down, and someone had cut a fringe into it while he was asleep. His face was clean. And… his entire lower right arm was missing, of course. That was yet another thing Nidhogg had damaged beyond repair. For his part, Alberic looked the same as always - steady face and dependable body.

Alberic took a shaking breath in, but Estinien spoke first.

"...Father."

He'd never said it before. Never out loud, and never on purpose. But if not now, then when? It'd been a fact for years; but one Estinien had always denied to himself. For foolish reasons. For reasons inextricably linked to Nidhogg's presence in his life. And now Nidhogg was gone, Estinien fully meant to release the choke-collar that the dread wyrm had put around the neck of so many things. This was the first.

Alberic's face contorted, and Estinien readied himself for the oncoming tirade. He'd been monstrous to the man. He deserved every epithet he could shout at him; every punch and kick, no doubt. Alberic had never struck him before, not once, but surely he deserved it now. He was prepared to accept everything--

But what came out of Alberic's mouth wasn't an insult. He let out a breathless sob, tears spilling down his cheeks. Fury, they looked out of place; here was a veteran of She only knew how many campaigns, crying like a bairn. And yet Estinien found the corners of his own eyes pricking with tears, as well. Why, he knew not.

Alberic closed the distance between them and wrapped his arms around Estinien. His grip was tight, but… with one arm around Estinien's waist and the other cradling his head, he couldn't help but feel like  _ he _ was the one being comforted by the embrace. But wasn't it Alberic he came here to apologise to?

"I'm so  _ proud  _ of you!" came the unexpected words. Estinien bit his lip, his ears dipped down, and dared to look at Alberic's face; he was crying, true, but there was a smile there. A grateful smile. What in the world…

"Ser Aymeric told me all that transpired. How you resisted Nidhogg at the last! You overcame that which I could not, and when it truly mattered! There were so many nights when I feared you lost…"   
"I'm… sorry," Estinien said, his voice finally breaking. Fury, Alberic's display of emotion… "I-- truly. I can't comprehend how you can forgive me. For all I've done, to you and to Ishgard…"   
"Because you're my  _ son _ , you fool!" The embrace tightened, and Estinien finally allowed his head to be bowed towards Alberic's shoulder.

Seeing no face to save, he finally allowed himself to cry.

They ate dinner together. Estinien didn't talk much, during it, but Alberic did - about anything but Nidhogg, Estinien noted. That would likely be the oliphant in the room for the rest of their lives. But Alberic talked. Estinien had missed his voice.

Estinien left in the morning. Alberic told him he was always,  _ always _ welcome; and despite it all, with the earnestness in his father's tone, how could Estinien disbelieve him?


	2. Archon

Estinien was very grateful to have the opportunity to simply… travel.

It had always been  _ for _ something, before. For training, for Ishgard, for Nidhogg. Now he could just walk. Rest, if he wanted. Watch the stars. And then walk some more.

So far, he'd been back to Dravania, and even travelled as far north as the Churning Mists once again. The dragons of Anyx Trine had recognised him as no mortal had. They still let him pass unharmed. He did not claim to understand why.

He was back down in the Forelands now, and he was considering heading back in the direction of Tailfeather for supplies when a much closer campfire caught his attention. Assuming it was hunters, he approached - they often had amusing anecdotes, and he was yet to find a group that recognised him. For all he was finding the solitary travelling cathartic, every now and again it was necessary to seek company, lest one's mind wander as far as the rest of one's self.

When he grew within sighting distance, though, it seemed the identity of the campfire-builders had been mistaken. A single head sat at the fire; even in the fading evening light, their bright white hair and fanciful garb were clear to see against the forest's drab tones. Estinien knew of no other foolish noble who might have made their way this far out into the world. And although he had half a mind to avoid the campfire altogether now, he was sure the boy would appreciate the visit.

He approached the clearing casually, and was just about to call out to Alphinaud when he suddenly felt cool steel against his throat.

Wait. What?

His mind raced. Was this a trap somehow? The Brotherhood? They might want him dead. Surely so. And it wouldn't be that difficult for them to find a little blond noble that looked like Alphinaud from a distance. Maybe they'd make threats. Blackmail Aymeric. That sounded right. Estinien cursed his own recklessness. When would it stop putting his dear friend in danger?

The noble at the campfire stood up and turned to face him. And-- no. What? That  _ was _ Alphinaud! What on-- Was he--?!

Estinien forced himself to breathe and look again. Unless Alphinaud had suddenly acquired a taste for lipstick, then…  _ oh _ . This must be the twin that had been mentioned. Which meant the man with the knife was also…

"Scion," Estinien greeted, cordially.

"Who are you?" said the male voice, behind him.   
"I can take it from here," said the young Leveilleur, lifting her hand as if to dismiss what was probably a man-servant. But the man didn't move. Estinien felt his own heartbeat hammering. What sort of situation had he stumbled into?

"...I am Estinien of Ferndale," he said, keeping his voice steady and low. "Formerly of Wyrmsblood. I mistook you for your brother."

She folded her arms, then spoke to the man behind Estinien. "His right arm," she spoke, her voice just as precociously stuffy as Alphinaud's had been when Estinien first met him. "What is it made of?"   
Estinien huffed and held it out for inspection. A beige hand came out from behind him and probed at it.   
"Magitek," said the man.   
"Very well." The young lady made her dismissive hand gesture again. "Release him. T'is like he is who he says he is."

Finally the knife was removed from Estinien's skin, and the man stepped out in front of him. He looked like he was probably from Tailfeather. A local recruit, then? But the tattoos on his neck didn't look local… at least, not  _ that _ local. Perhaps he was displaced from the Dravanian Hinterlands?

"As you know, I am Alisaie Leveilleur. My companion here is Archon Thancred," said the outspoken young girl. Estinien knew better than to double-take visually, but he didn't expect the famous Handsome Thancred to look… well, like a Tailfeather native. Maybe he was just in disguise.

Nevertheless, Estinien bowed politely to the both of them, and was welcomed towards the campfire. To his surprise, Thancred didn't return to his treetop vantage point, but instead joined them at the campfire. Well, if he believed their position secure now, then that was his mistake to make.

They talked. It was… formal, for the most part. Estinien shared if he'd had any sightings of unusually strong warriors (he hadn't) and Alisaie shared whether she'd heard news of her brother in Ishgard (she hadn't). After a while, when they'd settled into their mugs of tea and into their silences, Alisaie decided to take a walk around the perimiter. "For more firewood," she claimed, but if Estinien knew anything about Leveilleurs, it was an excuse. Still. He saw no reason to deny her the excursion.

Silence reigned for a long moments, stretching into the evening forest. Eventually, Thancred spoke again.

"Our dear Warrior of Light has spoken plenty of you," he said, glancing at Estinien over the campfire with his one good eye.   
"I'm sure they have," Estinien grunted. He tipped his mug up for another drink of tea. When Thancred didn't speak again, he continued; "Unfortunately, I find myself doubting that it would help you in knowing me. Your return was after my… indiscretion, after all."

Thancred stared at him.

"How much do you know about me?" he asked, quietly.

Estinien shrugged. He got the sense Thancred was asking for more than a literal answer, but that was Thancred's problem. "That 'dear Warrior of Light' of yours used to speak of you  _ endlessly _ . They'd cry at night, thinking you were dead. Said you were brave, clever, selfless. All of that."

"That sounds like them," Thancred shrugged lopsidedly, taking a swig of his tea. "They talked a fair amount about you, too, you know. Courageous, humorous… and they were so determined to get you back. So  _ determined _ they wouldn't kill you. You're lucky to have gained such admiration from them, my fellow. They didn't always extend such valour on behalf of their lost friends."

Thancred dropped his gaze, and Estinien found himself frowning. Just  _ what  _ was the man on about?

"Speak plainly," he demanded.   
But Thancred did not, unfortunately, acquiesce. "I'm glad it was you who benefitted from their lesson learned, Estinien. And I mean that genuinely. I hope you find what it is that you're looking for out here."

Estinien got a distinct sense there was more going on here than he knew about, or was going to find out. At least from speaking to Thancred directly. It seemed Sharlayans all had the same pechant for riddles, and it was not something Estinien had patience for.

All the same… there was seemingly genuine kindness behind Thancred's words. And something akin to empathy. Estinien supposed he missed that, being a recent former vessel to Nidhogg; most of Ishgard wanted him dead, not to sympathise with him.

"Thank you for your kind words," he said in return. Thancred simply nodded.

They let the silence rest for the remaining duration of Alisaie's little firewood trip. If Estinien listened, he could actually hear her snapping twigs. She returned in a timely fashion, placed her spoils in a pile between her and Thancred's sitting spots, and settled in to talk about mundane things like what they'd be having for breakfast tomorrow and whether Estinien was invited or not.

Estinien tuned out and watched the fire. He supposed he understood the meaning behind Thancred's words: he was lucky. And he was. Incredibly so. He could -  _ should  _ \- have died, that night. And he didn't. Just like all the times before.

A decision slowly settled in his heart. If the Fury was to keep him in this world, and if he were to be using his borrowed time to settle loose ends… then he had somewhere in mind that he needed to go.


	3. Iceheart

There was a party. There always seemed to be in Ishgard - whether what was going on below the Pillars was war or peace. At least, today, it was a celebration of something Estinien could agree was worth the wait. Even the clouds had parted in respect of Ishgard's new Azure Dragoon - as Ser Aymeric took to the sky atop his dravanian companion, Estinien couldn't help but lift his face and watch.

But he couldn't stay. He had somewhere else to be.

Obtaining the manacutter again was easy. The Garlond Ironworks had supplied his prosthetic, so Estinien could be certain that they hadn't disowned him after all that had occurred. It was simply a case of approaching Biggs and asking for the key once more. Out of all of Ishgard, somehow Stephanivien de Haillenarte seemed the closest so far to recognising Estinien without his helmet on; at least, given by how much he was staring. But to Estinien's advantage, the man was either too sensible (or too dumbfounded) to say anything.

It was only a few hours' ride to Camp Cloudtop, but Estinien stopped there overnight. So much of Ishgard had begun to change since Nidhogg's defeat - repurposed and rebuilt. Camp Cloudtop was more or less the same. Greener, than the last time he'd seen it. The crops were coming along nicely. Karakul bounced about. The Knights of the Rose complained about their rations. It was all oddly nostalgic.

Estinien couldn't stand it. He left the next morning at the sun's slow climb over the limitless horizon.

From here, his journey was more difficult. He'd been sure to pack enough food for at least a week - camping tarpaulin to transform the cockpit of his manacutter into a sleeping area, and protective clothing for umbral windstorms or other such things. With no dragon-sense to pull him forth, he had to rely on the navigational techniques he had learned earlier in his dragoon training. Would that his mentors could see what he was using them for now… he was certain they would find it hilarious. Estinien frowned. This was important to him, and he didn't need any more ghosts getting in the way of it.

Only one ghost mattered right now.

A storm forced him to stop on a tiny island for a second overnight, and he feared he would awaken to find himself thousands of malms off-course. But on lifting the tarp, the sky was already a sickly shade of yellow, the clouds clotted together like wads of soiled infirmary cotton; he couldn't be far.

Getting his bearings, he forged on.

None of the old barriers to his entry still stood. It seemed Cid's aetheric converger had thoroughly destroyed the outer barriers, and of course, what with Azys Lla rapidly becoming a well-known source of rare resources, nobody had seen fit to re-erect them. It worked for Estinien. It meant he could set his manacutter down by one of the ancient port landings and hop out onto the deck without so much as encountering a patrol node.

He remembered, all too keenly, the last time he had been here. With the Warrior of Light… with Alphinaud… with the Eye. Having just witnessed Lady Iceheart's brave stand against--

No. He couldn't call her that any more.

He knelt by the side of his manacutter and reached into it.  _ Ysayle. _ It was a Coerthan name that meant a summer storm. He didn't like to think, then, that perhaps it was fitting she had vanished into the cold as well… but regardless of the bitter meaning behind her name, the thought of warm Ysayle, learning of her follies in every step she shared with the Warriors of Light and always, always doing her best, was more true to the memory of the woman now than anything that  _ Lady Iceheart _ had ever done.

When had he grown so fond of her? Or had it been Nidhogg who had hated her so? No. Estinien couldn't blame all of his mistakes on the dread wyrm, and he too had treated Ysayle with contempt. He, and only he, had seen her as an inconvenience to be tossed aside in pursuit of their goal. He had realised too late what a companion she could have been.

His boots echoed on the metal plating underfoot as he approached the end of the landing. This was where they had seen her… Iceheart and Ysayle, all bound up in one, battering the Garlean flagship like a storm and then fading like one, too. She had been… beautiful. And it was the last time Estinien had seen her.

They were much alike, her and himself. Coerthan orphans, polarised by the war which had taken everything from them… and if they  _ were _ as alike as he thought, then now that it was all over… perhaps she, too, would wish to resolve their argument. To forgive. To rest.

He looked down at the bouquet of Nymeia lilies in his hand. This was all he could do for her now.

He didn't speak. He'd already said everything he could, at the moment of her fall -  _ fare thee well, my lady _ . Now, he simply laid the bouquet down; rest his hand over his heart for a moment. Thought of her.

When his legs began to ache from standing, he turned to go back--

Who was that up on the ridge?

He began running before he'd even finished processing what he'd seen. It was her-- her silhouette, her robes and her hair-- up on one of the rock formations, but… before he'd even got half-way to the Helix aetheryte, she'd vanished from sight. It wasn't as though Estinien could use a dragoon's jump to speed his journey any longer… if whoever it was didn't wish to be seen, then t'was like Estinien couldn't force them.

He felt his heart sink just the same as it had leapt at the thought she wasn't truly gone. It had been a fool's relief to believe she might still be here somehow… they'd all seen her fall. There was no coming back from that.

And yet, he found himself sitting by the side of his manacutter for what must have been a bell or two, waiting to see if she would come walking down the dock to greet him.

She didn't. Of course she didn't. Estinien wasn't a child any more - he couldn't keep clinging onto the thought that somehow, magically, the people he'd lost would walk back into his life tomorrow, and he'd be able to say everything he'd regretted not saying the first time around. All his apologies… his amends. He simply had to lay them down with the lilies and hope that this, alone, would give him the rest he craved.

He climbed back into the manacutter and turned it back towards Coerthas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gave "Ysayle" meaning based off the name "Iselle", which was a tropical cyclone. In truth, neither name has a real etymology that I could find.


	4. Ferndale

He remembered hills and flocks.

He found snow and bones.

He had not returned to this valley since he was a boy. He hadn't the chance, and then he hadn't the heart. Even now, he couldn't bring himself to go down to the village itself - tears stung at his freezing cheeks as he set up his tent, two malms away from where he used to live. Despite all logic, every attempt he'd made at setting off down the hillside had been thwarted by the thought of what horrific images would greet him.

He still saw them in his dreams. Robbed of the righteous fury of vengeance, he was left only with sadness. Agony. Hopelessness. Regret.

He knew he needed to set these ghosts to rest, too. Perhaps lilies alone wouldn't do it this time. But he at least needed to see the site of what had happened. What had started all of this.  _ A sibling taken too early… _

He camped for three days and three nights on the ridge above the valley before he could finally bring himself to walk closer. It was a crisp day when he set out - diamond dust twinkling in the sky as his boots left deep marks in the snow. He feared every footstep might have the crunch of a bone in it; that every piece of snow cleared would unveil a familiar face, twisted almost but not enough beyond recognition by time and frost and fire.

Logic and calm breathing told him it wouldn't. But logic and calm breathing told him, too, that the gathering winds meant he wouldn't have time to get to safety before the next blizzard arrived - and thus, once more, he was forced to turn back before reaching the village perimeter.

He moved his tent back into a sheltered crevice and lit a fire. He would try again tomorrow. He heated the rations he'd stolen from Temple Knight supplies and found an odd sort of comfort in them - they were familiar from a time when his loss was already well-worn, and he slept without crying that night.

The next morning was clearer, and there were no signs that another blizzard was about to be blown in. Today was the day, then.

Today was…

Today…

He squinted at the sky. Perhaps that was… ah, a cloud… yes, perhaps-- but no, he knew it not to be snow-bearing. Part of him wished it was - part of him wished that there was an easy way, an easy excuse not to do this.  _ Not to see. Not to make it real _ . But that wasn't fair, was it? He didn't do this for his  _ own _ sake - he did it for the sake of the lost. The sake of those who had no choice, any more, because they were  _ dead _ . At least… at least visiting was something. Really, the least he could do.

He swallowed over the lump in his throat, his mittens curled into fists and his hair tickled by the faintest of frigid breezes.

The frost nipped at his ears, despite the thick hat he wore to cover them, and he shook his head. He couldn't stand here like the cowardly child who had been taken from this village, all those years ago. He couldn't cling onto every distraction - there were no snow-clouds, the fire wasn't about to catch to the tent, and those weren't footsteps he could hear approaching in the snow. He was fabricating things, and it was absurd--

"Estinien," said a gruff, male voice, and Estinien made a sharp start. His hand was half-way to his lance before he realised who it was that had spoken.

He let out his breath, slowly. "...Ser Alberic."

"I thought I might find you out here somewhere," Alberic said, pitching the blunt end of his lance in the snow and trudging over to stand facing Estinien. "Yesterday's blizzard didn't give you too much trouble, did it?"   
"No," Estinien said, looking Alberic up and down. Judging by the size of his pack, he couldn't have been tracking Estinien for longer than a few hours. At least, then, he likely hadn't seen the way Estinien's steps had faultered; the way he'd jumped like a startled gaelicat at every shadow.   
"Then I am glad." Alberic gave a smile, his eyes creased in the sunlight screaming off the snow.

A silence grew between them. T'was not long, however, before Alberic broke it once more.

"I felt it right to come here," he said. "But if you would rather travel down alone, then I shall not stand in your way."   
Estinien opened his mouth. Then shook his head. "I fell to Nidhogg alone. I ought to atone for my sin alone, as well."   
Alberic drew himself up. "Estinien, you did not fall alone. I played no small part in pushing you, regardless of my intention to do exactly the opposite. You did not fail; I failed  _ you _ , repeatedly! And I'm not talking about that horrible night."   
Estinien stared. "Alberic, t'was I who heeded the dread wrym's words--"   
"And t'was I who gave you cause to!" Alberic shook his head firmly. "Had I not pushed you away, had I told you the truth to  _ begin _ with, then I would not have set you down that dark path. You were just a child! You didn't deserve the position I put you in."

Estinien didn't know what to say. In his view,  _ he  _ had been the one to decide - of his own foolish accord - that he no longer wished to abide by Alberic's guidance. He couldn't stand to lay the blame on anyone's shoulders but his own.

"Allow me to walk with you this time," Alberic pleaded. "I let you down the first time, but I can do right by you now."  
Estinien bit his lip. He'd come here to reconcile with his family, hadn't he?

He set off down the ridge to the little snow-covered steps he'd carved into the ice on his first day here, leading down onto what had once been a verdant hillside. He turned back to see Alberic still standing there, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight - and gestured with his head for him to follow.

They walked down into the valley together in silence.

The actual ruins themselves were entirely buried in snow. There were no pathways, foundations, not even beams of old buildings to mark their way in what had once been a Coerthan hamlet - all was buried under five full years of snow. But Estinien remembered  _ everything _ . Here had been the church, and the well, and the hall, and the tavern. Here had been the cooper, and the butcher, and the blacksmith. Here had been Marguerite's house, and Guillemette's, and Alienor who they'd all been sure Estinien's little brother would marry when they all grew up.  _ When they all grew up. _ His cheeks stung bitterly as frost nibbled at his tears.

He turned and followed the path (what path?) out of town to where the grazing fields used to be. Even though the sun caught snow now and not grass, it all seemed the  _ same _ somehow. His feet carried him all the way around to the sheep-pens; to the farmhouse. To their back garden with those herbs that Maman always tried to grow even though they got root-rot every single year; the front door Papa scrubbed clean because  _ that's how people know we care, Estinien _ ; the window little Charlie smashed with his ball that one time only to pin the blame on Estinien…

But there was just snow.  _ Just **swiving** snow _ . Snow and beams and years and everything he knew, everything he'd cared about, was buried beneath them all. He used to like the snow, when they were little. He'd thought it was magical. Now, he  _ hated  _ it. He wanted what was underneath back.

He swallowed thick, blinking his eyes before they froze over. A warm, reassuring hand rubbed circles at his back.

All at once, his mind slipped out from under him. But the flashback wasn't the destruction of Ferndale - it wasn't even the Aery, or the Steps of Faith. It was the  _ Steel Vigil _ . He remembered having lance in hand, pointing it at the throat of his father.  _ No, not Papa - it had never been Papa. _ He remembered learning of what Alberic had done.  _ Seeing it through Nidhogg's Eye. The betrayal; the slaughter of a loved one. _ It all came together in one horrifying amalgamation - of Estinien's talons rending apart families, his breath searing away the good in the world. But it was all things that Alberic had warned him of, wasn't it?

Perhaps if he'd truly listened to the lesson in Alberic's tale, even the version of it Nidhogg had shown him… he would have known better. Perhaps he would not have disgraced himself… his village… his family. Like he did.

Alberic wrapped his other arm around Estinien. Estinien turned toward him, sobs overtaking him, clinging tight to him like he hadn't since he was a boy.

He couldn't hope that his mother and his father - his first father - could be proud of him. He didn't think his little brother would be happy to see him, if he came running down the hill right now. He thought he would be afraid of him if he could see him now. If he knew what he'd done. If he was told the truth, as Estinien and Alberic both wished Estinien had been.

Estinien couldn't abide the thought. He had to change.

He made a vow, then, silent as he cried his pain into his adoptive father's shoulder. He would return here, in a year; and he would have done better, by then. He would have done things that could make them proud. He would have stories to tell. Things to show - to bury in the snow, with them. He wanted to imagine… they might still be proud of him. Might still smile. Even if it was only in Estinien's mourning heart and not on their warm, living faces, perhaps it could still happen.

  
One day.


	5. Blue

It was a surprisingly temperate evening in Ishgard, the clear sky shifting from vivid red into cool, deep blue. The manacutter's engine whirred to a stop as Estinien gently set it down. He gathered his things, then took the key out and pulled the tarpaulin over the cockpit.

He wouldn't be able to take the machine with him where he was going - something about the aether in southern Eorzea not supporting the engine… the details bored him. He had to focus on the practical. And so, he left it in its dock in Garland's section of the Skysteel Manufactory. Perhaps he'd be back for it one day.

In the mean time, he had mind to see the continent that the Warrior of Light had fought so vehemently for - both on the battlefield, and in the meeting room. Perhaps it would give him the direction - the redemption - that he needed so keenly. But to traverse it, he'd need a chocobo.

Which meant obtaining an issuance - even in Ishgard, the beasts couldn't exactly be purchased for pocket change. He made his way to the Congregation.

No one recognised him.

Which made, he found, seeking audience with Lucia remarkably difficult. It was only by happenstance that he secured a word with her, in the end - she was headed out when she found him arguing with the doorman.

"I'll take it from here," she said, with such certainty that even Estinien - in all his conviction to never return to Ishgard's military - almost felt compelled to salute her.

She took him to a side room and listened to his request.

She didn't have an issuance on hand, but she went with him to retrieve one and sign it off for him. She asked him what sort of bird he was thinking of getting, offered to issue him rations if he thought he'd need them - but she did not ask him where he was going. Estinien supposed she'd find out soon either way, if she was keeping as many tabs on him as he suspected.

She did say one thing, though. Handing him the signed issuance, her hand snared his for a moment - her palm pressed firm against the back of his - and looked him in the eye.

"You ought to visit Ser Aymeric before your departure," she said. It was all but an order. "He would be glad to see you."

"He would," Estinien conceded. "Thank you for your assistance, Ser Lucia."

She let go.

\--

It was cloudy the next morn, but not over-cold. No snow, and the fog in the Brume was low. The people at the stables hadn't recognised him either, and so he was able to pick out a chocobo on his own: a handsome gelding of good endurance. He hoped the creature would make as good a travelling companion as he could ask for - quiet, clever, and reliable.

He saw no reason to further delay his departure. He took the chocobo to the holding pen so it could be boarded properly, then climbed up the steps towards the passenger dock. He didn't deserve this new beginning. But he had it. He simply had to…

Ser Aymeric was waiting on the dock. The fur around his coat's collar ruffled in the constant breeze, his gaze scanning the platform.

Estinien's heart rose into his throat. Why was he here?! Nobody here recognised him without the armour - not right now. But if Aymeric greeted him out in the open like this - there'd be no doubt. Gah! Why couldn't the man understand that he-- that his affections--

He grit his teeth and walked the final few steps up onto the dock, then strode directly for the boarding platform. If Aymeric was going to confront him like this, he couldn't exactly stop him. But he could at least show him he wanted to leave without a fuss.

But Aymeric didn't approach. Estinien showed his pass to the ticketing desk, then stepped on board the airship. He glanced back at the desk, expecting to see Aymeric begging to be allowed on board to say farewell - but the man was still stood in his original position, placidly glancing about the platform as though simply watching clouds drift by.

Almost by accident, Estinien caught his eye. He felt his cheeks flush with frustration, but once again, Aymeric failed to make the overtures Estinien had expected. Instead, the corners of his mouth lifted in a gentle smile. He put his hand up in a small, contained wave.

Estinien glanced down; then, very very tentatively, and only after looking about to check no one else was watching him, waved back.

This seemed to please Aymeric, because he bowed his head and turned to leave the platform altogether - back off up towards Borel Manor, judging by his dress. Perhaps he'd watch the airship's departure over what used to be the Steps of Faith from one of the windows - who knew.

As Estinien seated himself in the passenger area of the airship, he found his head aswim with emotion. Had Aymeric really wished so much to see him before he departed? Who knew what important, ghastly noble he'd brushed off in order to be here. Probably a  _ horde _ of them, if Aymeric's schedule was anything like what Estinien would guess. But he'd done it. For Estinien.

Quietly, Estinien made a vow. He'd return in a year - no sooner. But this wasn't just for the dead any more, was it? No - for Alberic. And for Aymeric. He hoped they would both be proud of him, too.

With a clunk, the airship began to lift off.


End file.
